


"Potter Lives"

by Zoya1416



Series: "Potter Lives" [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Gen, Graffiti, Inspired by Hermione Granger's Hogwarts Crammer For Delinquents On The Run by waspabi, Missing Scene, Rebellion, Second Wizarding War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:13:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21897976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya1416/pseuds/Zoya1416
Summary: "Hermione zoned out, reading the graffiti over the toilet door. Alice is a SLAG, Princess Di always in our ♥s , Poppy wuz here. Over a neon green advert for a club night she spotted something else — a little lightning bolt, and underneath, in an untidy scrawl: Potter lives."CH4.Hermione Granger's Hogwarts Crammer For Delinquents On The Run, by waspabiA squib in a university town is the first to spot Harry Potter. Missing scene from Ch.4.Synopsis of HGHCFDOTR: Harry Potter is lost from the magical trace, and pulled back into the wizarding world at 17. He's found in London after escaping from the Dursleys by a renegade group lead by Hermione Granger, comprised of Hermione, Ron Weasley, Ginny Weasley, Luna Lovegood, Neville Longbottom, and Draco Malfoy. It's a grittier AU of the tent camping year, as they travel around Britain, teaching Harry magic and performing acts of resistance. Hermione finds the Potter Lives grafitti in a university loo, but never knows who wrote it.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Series: "Potter Lives" [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1701967
Comments: 35
Kudos: 503





	"Potter Lives"

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hermione Granger's Hogwarts Crammer for Delinquents on the Run](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7331278) by [waspabi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waspabi/pseuds/waspabi). 



Maeve Woodbourne’s feet hurt, and it was still four hours until closing time. In between pulling pints and mixing cocktails, she scanned the crowd. The bar was filled with the usual crowd of top lads who formed walls of drunken testosterone. The manager turned an blind eye to their loutishness with women, but she watched out for them. The lads were mostly in grunge with huge flannel shirts, ripped jeans, and Doc Martens. Some were trying out InSync camouflage trousers. 

She catalogued all the girls’ fashions she couldn’t afford: all those Spice Girls imitations – denim on denim, slip dresses with flannels, sheer tops and platform shoes. Plenty of the girls wearing miniskirts were lucky enough to have long leather coats. Both the boys and girls had sloppy unkempt hair.

As a bartender she had to wear a white shirt and black pants. The only concession to fashion she could follow was a metal ball choker, and floral hair clips for her pigtails. Tonight’s specials included pink martinis and drinks full of fruit skewers, which took precious time to chop and prepare. 

Over in one corner hovered an odd group somehow different from the rest. Four boys and three girls, in dull jumpers and denim trousers. Only one girl wore a mood ring. A couple of the boys were in hoodies. One stood out with a fine wool coat, but in an odd cut. They were laughing and unconcerned, and at first she couldn’t put a finger on their oddness. Then one of the lads pulled up in front of her station, gave her a brilliant smile, and ordered a tray of snakebite and black.

She smiled at him automatically and then felt a swift twinge, a shimmer she hadn’t known in years. Astonished, she looked at him intensely. The boy was thin, with poorly fitting clothes and horrible trainers, but he had golden brown skin and startling green eyes. His face—his face was almost certainly the one she’d seen in the Daily Prophet for weeks, many years ago.

She had been ten when the Potter family had been murdered. Everyone knew James and Lily Potter been killed by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and that their baby had somehow killed the monster. The tragedy ended the war. No one could explain it, and no one knew where their baby had gone. Her mother cried for days, overcome with joy, and Maeve cried because she thought her mother was sad. In her mind it was all mixed up with the death of her father from dragonpox, two months later, and the realization that she would never go to Hogwarts. Her mother never smiled again, and it took years for Maeve to realize that it was not just grief, it was utter exhaustion because she had to raise five children as a herbalist and potioner in a remote town. Her father had had a good job as a weaver in a rug shop. His wand was faster than anyone else’s, and he had brought home many sickles and the occasional galleon. 

All of them had worked in her gardens as soon as they could toddle, watering, pulling weeds, or harvesting the plants. As soon as they could hold wands, they used them to reduce the manual labor required. Her mother tied the plants into neat bundles, and levitated them to her workshop.

For a long time Maeve hoped she was a late bloomer, hoped that one day she would be able to pull rocks from the garden soil, pour water from her wand and yank tough roots out with a flick and swish. She waited and hoped, but had never done more than change a blue petal into a pink one. (It would be no consolation, years later, than quick color changes would let her mix drinks faster than anyone else.) But when her baby sister had been chased by a dog and wound up on the roof, at six years age, Maeve had the sick knowledge that magic had based her by.

She stayed at home and worked in the gardens and workshop, and the only consolation was that she enjoyed helping with the potions. She had her mother’s undivided attention for most of the year, and learned to prepare ingredients quickly and precisely. When she was twelve, she came into enough magic to stir the less complicated preparations. Finally she had enough ability with potions to create the simplest by herself. It was ecstasy when she produced a bottle of dittany to her mother’s satisfaction. Herbology came naturally, too, as she rambled the woods and fields near their cottage with her mother. She learned to identify the plants and name ingredients for dozens of potions, better than her siblings. It was something, but it wasn’t enough. 

***

Her grandmother was a Muggle. When she realized that Maeve was a squib, she introduced her to the Muggle world. She taught Maeve at home, and had her tutored by a Muggle cousin until she could enroll in secondary school. She excelled in botany and maths, was excited to realize the entire universe of Muggle literature, and struggled mightily with history. But she’d always worked hard and could concentrate on fine details, memorizing an entire book of potions in one month, and the skills transferred. To everyone’s surprise, she won a scholarship to a medium-level Muggle university. It wasn’t enough; it was only for tuition. Her family could pay only a little. So she worked. On her 17th birthday she walked into the Prince of Wales pub and asked for a job. She’d been here now for eight years, taking classes as she could afford them. She’d graduate at the end of the next term, reading botany. Besides working in the pub she’d assisted in the university greenhouses. 

She could stay in the pub if she wanted. She made good money, and would have much more once she’d finished paying for university. But she wanted more. She’d sat with her advisor today, going over all the options. There were health stores creating herbal products, which would be dead easy, there was work in a pharmaceutical house, there was a job as an urban forester in a Muggle city fifty miles away, there were dozens more careers she could take, far away from the wizarding world. Her mind buzzed with these thoughts as she mixed drinks, magic the last thing on her mind. Then she saw that face; he had to repeat his order because she couldn’t concentrate the first time. This boy – he was obviously supposed to be under disguising charms, but she could always see through those. It was her only other gift. She could see the wild lightning scar someone had taken pains to hide on his forehead.

She strained to remember every detail of those old pictures – he looked just like his father, but with the amazing green eyes of his mother. After she mixed the drinks – cider, lager, and blackcurrant cordial – it always made her shudder that anyone would drink that, but it was a top selling special —she turned back to him and had no doubt. Here at this Muggle university was Harry Potter, lost for fifteen years. 

The group he was with had dispersed throughout the pub, but she could still see the black girl and her tall red-haired companion. They were no older than students. They should be at Hogwarts; why weren’t they? Her family had kept her informed about the looming war. Their fear grew every time they visited her, but they would never leave their world. Horrible rumours were growing. He Who Must Not Be Named and the Death Eaters were killing Muggles for sport. Her brothers had performed security charms over her flat. 

What were these kids doing with Harry Potter? The girl’s companion hadn’t drunk at all, and he had an air of guardedness; he was watching the room carefully even as he laughed with the girl. On the run? What were their plans? Should she go over, say something? She was a squib, she couldn’t help them. She couldn’t cast a single defensive spell. Suddenly she remembered the history of Muggle wars she’d had to swot. Propaganda had helped the resistance in Britain, giving Muggle civilians strength and hope. What had she seen here? Harry Potter, the baby who’d ended the last wizarding war, was still alive. She didn’t know who he was with, but they looked strong, even though they were so young. Renegade wizards and witches, a resistance group, she would bet anything she had. She couldn’t go over to them, but – well, alcohol had its way with everyone, and the girl she saw looked to be on at least her second cider. She’d take a chance.

“I’m going to the loo, be back in a second,” she called to the other bartender. He glowered at her, but she made a run. She grabbed the first open cubicle and pulled out her long nail file, adding to the graffiti. Alice is a SLAG, Princess Di always in our ♥s , Poppy wuz here-- Over a neon green advert for a club night she scrawled something else — a little lightning bolt, and underneath, in an untidy scrawl: Potter lives. 

She rushed to the next two cubicles and scratched out the same words, dashing back to her station less than five minutes after she’d left it. Just in time – the girl giggling with her companion patted his cheek soppily and stood up. She watched as the girl came pelting out of the bathroom, color fading from the brown cheeks. She nearly knocked over a boy on the way back to her table, and jabbered hurriedly at her companion. He jerked to his feet, peered around for his friends. They both looked frightened, and Maeve wanted to go over to them so badly. _“Don’t worry, please, I’m not your enemy. I wanted you to take this for hope. He lives! He ended the last war, maybe he can end this one.“_

Heart in her throat, she saw them scan the room, see no one suspicious, and turn back to each other. They started to smile, then grin, and she could read the boy’s lips.

_POTTER LIVES._

A week later her brother made it to town and showed her the Daily Prophet. The headline was in jagged archaic script, with a lightning bolt which somehow looked cheery. He boiled over telling her about how the newspaper offices must have been sabotaged, and wondered how it had been done. She wanted very much to tell him – but she didn’t. She didn’t want to describe the little band; she needed to keep them safe. She needed to keep her family safe, not burden them with a dangerous secret. But she made him give her the paper, and posted it up in her bedroom.  


_POTTER LIVES._

And she, a squib, had been the first one to spread the word.

**Author's Note:**

> This series is inspired by waspabi's Hermione Granger's Hogwarts Crammer For Delinquents On The Run, and the podfic by the amazing lazulus. If you haven't read and listened to this, you are missing out on excellence.


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